Kelly smiled.

Derek hailed the barman. 'Barman, barman,' he hailed.

'He won't listen,' said an ancient sitting at the bar. 'If you want to get his attention, you should speak in Runese.'

Derek glowered towards the ancient. Then he said, 'How did you get on with the over-eighties backwards walk from Kew to Richmond?'

'I came first,' said Old Pete (for who could it have been but him). 'Bit of healthy competition this year. I had to nudge at least three wheelchair cases into the Thames. Three's a record, I think, it was only two last year. And that nun, but she was cheating, riding a BMX.'

'Barman,' hailed Derek. 'Barman, please.'

Old Pete didn't read any poems that night. He wasn't much of a poet, Old Pete, even in the holy cause of the well-won-fine-free-pint. He knew his limitations. And anyway, he was busy tucking into the free champagne that the Arts Centre was dishing out to him to celebrate his win in the over-eighties backwards walk.

Old Pete's chum, Old Vic, was a poet though. And a mighty one to boot. Old Vic had been a prisoner of war. In a war that few remembered now, but they still made movies about. Mostly inaccurate ones where they got the hairstyles wrong, but as that is Hollywood tradition, it's neither here nor there.

Old Vic was first up upon the rostrum to recite his latest poem. Old Vic always received a standing ovation, even from those who remained sitting down, for, after all, he had been a prisoner of war. Hands clapped aplenty, fingers were stuck into mouths and whistles were blown out between them. Certain hats were cast into the air, but these were those of visiting poets who came from strange lands to the South where poets always wore hats.

'Thank you,' said Old Vic, waggling his wrinkled hands about to staunch the outpourings of welcome. 'I've had to have a bit of a think this week about what I was going to write about. I thought I might do a poem about bream. Lovely fish the bream, very silvery. Quite unlike the perch, which is fatter and has green and reddy bits. Or indeed the dab, not unlike the bream, some might say, but a slimmer slippery fellow and one liable to make his escape through your keep-net if you only have thirteen-gauge netting, rather than a ten-gauge.'

There was some laughter over this from a group of local anglers. Imagine anyone being daft enough to put a dab in a keep-net with thirteen-gauge netting. That was a good'n.

'Bravo, Old Vic,' called anglers, raising their glasses and making rod-casting motions with them.

'Careful,' said a pimply young man. 'You're spilling your beer on me.'

'Ssh,' went the anglers. 'Listen to Old Vic. He was a prisoner of war.'

'Cheers lads,' said Old Vic, tipping the anglers the wink. 'But I decided not to write a poem about bream this week.'

'Aw,' went the anglers. 'Shame.'

'Maybe next week lads. But this week, not bream. I have to say that I toyed with the idea of writing a poem about muleskinning.'

A cheer went up from a group of muleskinners over from Cardiff for the annual muleskinners' convention that is always held at the Function Rooms at the Station Hotel.

'Evening lads,' called Old Vic. 'Good to see you here again. I'll pop over to have a word later, I need a new eight-foot bull whip, I wore the last one out at the Easter fete.'

'Three lashes for a quid,' said Derek. 'He always gives good value. The money goes to charity of course. Small and shoeless boys in search of a good hiding, or something.'

'Eh?' said Kelly, tucking into her tucker, which had lately arrived at the bar counter. 'Could you pass the cranberry sauce, please?'

Derek passed the cranberry sauce.

'Now,' Old Vic continued. 'I must confess that I didn't write a poem about muleskinning.'

Kelly looked up from eating. 'What a fascinating man,' she said in a tone that was less than sincere. 'I've no doubt that he's about to tell us that he didn't write a poem about unicycling vicars either.'

'Let the old boy have his say,' sshed Derek. 'He's a venerable poet. And he was a prisoner of war.'

Kelly said, 'Pass the ginseng dip.' And Derek passed it over.

'Any unicycling vicars out there?' asked Old Vic.

Another cheer went up.

'Sorry,' said the ancient. 'Maybe next week.'

'My money is now on Yugoslavian junk bond dealers,' said Kelly to Derek. 'Or possibly Venezuelan gorilla impersonators, deaf ones of course.'

'So,' said Old Vic. 'I considered all and sundry, but I've decided to do a poem about the time when I was

'A Prisoner of War!' chorused all and sundry, except for Old Vic.

'Ah, I see,' said Kelly. 'It's a running gag.'

'It doesn't work if you don't come every week,' said Derek.

'I'm not altogether certain that it would, even if I did. Pass the crow's foot puree, please.'

Derek passed the crow's foot puree.

'I was once a prisoner of war,' said Old Vic. 'You won't remember the war in question. It's the one that they make movies about, although they always get the haircuts wrong.'

A group of visiting English hairdressers who worked for Pinewood Studios cheered at this.

'I call this poem "Blood and snot for breakfast again and only human finger bones to use for a knife and fork.'"

Kelly choked on her surf and turf and a small fight ensued between pimply young men who wanted to pat her on the back.

Old Vic launched into his poem.

'We was up to our eyes in pus and puke

There was only me and Captain Duke

Who could still stand up on where our legs had been

Which were oozing mucus and rotten with gangrene.'

Pimply men took turns at Kelly's back.

'We boiled up some phlegm to make a cup of tea

In the skull of the corporal from the infantry

Captain Duke drank the lot and left none for me

But I didn't mind, because I'd spat in it.'

'All right,' said Kelly. 'Stop patting my back or I'll break all your arms.' The pimply men stopped patting and Kelly sipped wine and tucked once more into her tucker.

'I spread some bile upon my maggot-ridden bread…'

'Pat,' gagged Kelly, pointing to her back.

Old Vic's poem was only seventeen verses long and when it was finished it drew a standing ovation even from those who remained sitting down.

Kelly heard the cheering, but she didn't join in with it. For Kelly was in the ladies, bent rather low above the toilet bowl.

'Are you OK?' asked Derek, upon her return to the bar.

'That wasn't funny,' said Kelly, who still looked radiant, as only women can, after a bout of vomiting. 'That was disgusting.'

'Perhaps the mandrake salad dressing didn't agree with you.'

'I'm going,' said Kelly. 'I don't want to hear any more.'

'I'll be on in a minute,' said Derek. 'You wouldn't want to miss me, would you?'

'Do your poems involve any pus or mucus?'

Derek thought for a bit. 'No,' he said. 'They're mostly about sex.'

Kelly stared at him. 'And what would you know about sex?'

'Oh I know a lot about it,' said Derek. 'It's just that I don't do a lot of it.'

'I overheard a pimply bloke saying that poetesses are easy. Surely if you're a regular performer you get your end away every once in a while.'

'Don't be crude,' said Derek. 'But actually it is true, poetesses are easy. Well, at least the fat ugly ones with moustaches are.'

Kelly gave Derek another one of those looks. 'That would be the fat girls are grateful for it theory, would it?'

'Listen,' said Derek. 'I'm not fat, but I can tell you, I'm really grateful for it.'

'Whose round is it, then?' asked Kelly. 'If I'm staying, you could at least have the decency to buy me a drink.'

'I think we'd started buying our own,' said Derek.

'No, I think you were still buying mine.'